


of various storms & saints

by borzbois



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: "casual" sex but like lets be honest here with yourself amelie, Alternate Universe - No Overwatch, Ballet, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Casual Sex, Depression, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Medium Burn, Mutual Pining, Past Character Death, Polyamory, Recovery, Smut, Threesome - F/F/F, figure skating AU, lena is a useless lesbian, no beta reader we die like men, you caught the feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2019-11-27 10:34:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18193445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borzbois/pseuds/borzbois
Summary: The day that Gérard died in her arms is the day that Amélie did, too. Or so she thinks.FORMERLY NAMED valsent les amours mortes





	1. uncurling lifelines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for my French, I’ve studied it for quite a long time but I’m not fluent by any means. The dialogue in this chapter is in French but just this chapter. I just thought it was poignant.

When she skates with Gérard, it is like nothing else. 

He knows her body intimately, instinctively, every touch familiar and and every movement perceived before she herself knows she make it. She sinks into his touch in front of thousands, his skin warm against hers, their hearts pounding in time, the rush of exhilaration deep in their chests. They lock eyes, bright and alight with passion.

Another flawless performance for them, the roar of the crowd barely audible over the sound of her own thoughts heading into overdrive. She holds him in a deep kiss, breathless smile spread wide over her face as they turn to bow.

Another gold medal, another victory. They beat their own personal best, tonight. They were headed to Italy for Worlds, and then the Olympics.

They break open the champagne in the back of the towncar on their way home, laughing and giggling. Their medals hang around their neck, clinking against each other as they kiss and drink and  celebrate. They had been practicing for so many years, waiting for this moment. It was their chance, their golden year, and after this they could comfortably retire — if they wanted to. Knowing them, they would keep going until they physically couldn’t anymore, or until the ISF kicked them out. But they would go out with a bang, that was for sure.

Amélie cannot think of happier days than the last few years with her husband, entrenched deeply in all of her passions — ballet, skating, love.

It all ends in the blink of an eye.

She wakes up to the rhythmic beeping of hospital monitors, gagging on a tube stuck down her throat, trying to helplessly  bat away at nurses and doctors with weak arms and limp hands. Her whole body _aches_ , blearily eyeing the needles stuck into her arms with a hazy vision. _Maman_ is at her side, stroking her hair with tears in her eyes, jeweled earrings hanging heavy on her sagging skin.

“ _Où suis-je?_ ” she asks, the words raspy and faint in her throat. She drinks obligingly at the cup of water offered to her, grimacing at the taste in her own mouth.

 _Maman_ looks at her, eyes worried. Her usually perfectly coifed hair is frazzled, wisps falling to her face, her neck, some sticking up. Amélie has never seen her mother this out of sorts.

“ _L’hôpital_ ,” her mother  murmurs, her voice tired and gravelled. “ _Tu te rappelles ce qui s’est passé, ma chérie?_ ”

Amélie tries to remember.

She remembers laughing in the car with Gérard, sipping champagne and celebrating their victory. She spies their gold medals laid out upon the nightstand next to her. She remembers a screech of tires and white hot, burning. Gérard’s face, bloodied and fatigued, holding him in her arms despite the heat of the metal around her. She remembers the tears streaking down her face, her cries—

“ _Où est-ce Gérard_?” she demands frantically, the sound of monitors beginning to beep rapidly as her heart rate increases. She can feel the fuzziness of a panic attack, and she clutches her _maman_ desperately. “ _Où est-il? Où est-il, s’il t’plaît_?”

 _Maman_ stares at her with sad eyes, her own mascara smudged. _Maman_ loves Gérard — it is one of the few things that Amélie has ever done that she approved of. Her lips quiver as her mother shakes her head, words refusing to come out of her throat.

The day that Gérard died is the day that she did, too.


	2. somewhere in the belly of the beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this story will focus on mental health themes, please be advised it may include themes of suicidal thoughts/ideation, as well as depression and grief.

LONDON, ENGLAND  
11 OCT 2074  
07:22 AM LOCAL

The chill of the rink is refreshing as Lena steps out onto the ice. She relishes in the sound of her blades as they carve up the fresh layer of ice beneath her as she begins her warm up, a few laps around the rink to get her blood moving. She glides back to the gates where Angela sits, lacing up her own skates.

"What's on the agenda today, love?" Lena asks, placing her calf over the thick plastic half-wall to stretch her legs. She hasn't quite warmed up enough to shrug out of her jacket, but it won't be long now.

"A run of your programs to refresh," Angela says, rummaging through her purse to pull out her phone. "Then triple practice. Some clean-up work. Then a taping of both programs again so I can look it over and see any more work we need to do, or changes we need to make before we head out to America."

Skate America is next week, and they would be flying into Seattle in just a few days, to make sure Lena wasn't too jetlagged before the competition. No one is perfect at Skate America, the first Grand Prix event of the season — but Lena's time in the spotlight is quickly coming to an end, she knows. The average retirement age is better than it used to be with the advancements of medicine, but she's not far.

I've got maybe two or three more seasons left in me, she tells herself as she wills herself to get moving again. Just gotta get to the Olympics again. After that, I'm done.

She gives herself a few more laps around the ice, trying to calm the nervousness in her gut. She knows it's just practice, but doing a cold run of any program always gives her butterflies. She stops hard in the center of the rink, spraying ice, before stretching her arms out into her beginning pose. She breathes in and out, knowing Angela will give her a few breaths before beginning the music.

A lilted tune fills the rink, echoing off the walls and Lena breathes out, breaking into movement as she does so.

Her programs are usually more fast-paced and dark, but they decided to change it up this season. Her short program this season is light and airy, the ethereal tone much more reminiscent of her coach's own programs back when she competed. She still struggles with the timing, allowing herself to utilize every second to perform, but she'll do fine at Skate America.

Her triple lutz is what's giving her trouble.

She fractured her ankle a couple years back, right before the Championships that would have determined her place at the Olympics. It's never been the same, still giving her stabbing pains every so often. But that's not the biggest problem.

Lightning fast, Lena rears her long leg back to dig her toepick in, her breath stolen from her as she jumps. She has to grit her teeth on the landing, pins and needles shooting up her leg, trying desperately to keep her balance despite the startling numbness. She continues on, without any issue, able to ignore the dull ache in her ankle.

Angela gestures her back over the gates once she's done with her short, chest heaving with effort. Lena guzzles some water as she does so, before stretching her calf back over the divider. Angela’s nimble fingers probe at her leg, undoing her laces so she could feel underneath the boot to her ankle. “Still having trouble when you land on it?”

Lena nods, gritting her teeth.

Angela had medical training, but Lena already knew what she was going to say. They both know that Lena shouldn’t be skating on her ankle anymore, not the way it is — but she could last until Olympics. She would have to, or break her damn leg trying.

“Get in a few more PT sessions before the flight,” Angela says, waving her off. “Get ready for your free skate run.”

“Yes ma’am.”

* * *

 

PARIS, FRANCE  
11 OCT 2074  
06:45 AM LOCAL

It is a gentle crescendo of a piano concerto that plays as Amélie begins her ballet warmup.

At one point, ballet would have soothed her. It would have given her a clean slate for the day, allowed the worries and stressors to melt away as she felt the delightful stretch of her muscles. She used to love starting the day off with her ballet exercises, and signed up for early studio time whenever possible.

It doesn't fill her with much of anything anymore, least of all joy.

Amélie is simply going through the motions. Tendu front, right, back and repeat. Rélévé, turn, repeat.

After warm-up, it is a practice of the main solo, the suite playing an enchanting tune that echoes through the studio. Her and her alternate turn in sync, their movements precise and coordinated, equally fit for the role of the White Swan. The alternate got lucky this time around, the shows beginning right around the time that the Grand Prix circuit seasons begins. But Amélie is still the headlining ballerina, still would perform for every show where she isn't in another country.

She should feel blessed that her dancing and her skating career sync so beautifully together, world renown in both. She should feel lucky that people fly from all over Europe to watch her dance, she should feel lucky that she has gold medals that twinkle in the lamplight back at home.

Gérard's medals.

Her medals.

Their medals.

"Amélie," the Madame says after practice has wrapped up, pulling her over to the corner. "I know things have been rough for you this last year, but you can put more soul in your dancing. I know you can."

"I will do my best, Madame," Amélie replies.

She packs up her things after practice and heads to the rink. It's not a far walk, and it is fairly temperate for October, just skirting that side of warm. She passes by a café her and Gérard used to visit, would stop at for coffee every afternoon for practice. She hasn't been able to go in since the accident.

It's been two years since the accident, since Gérard died, since the day her life changed. She's not quite sure why she's still alive, or what she's living for. She takes a pill — or three — every morning that's supposed to help, but it doesn't. All it does is make her feel numb. She doesn't experience that overwhelming sadness anymore, sure, the kind that would keep her in bed for days. She can get out of bed now, only has to cry a little before she can sleep, but it's not the same as it was with him.

Nothing gives her joy anymore — not dancing or skating, surely. All they do is break her heart, and remind her of how terribly alone she is. How she used to have these things with Gérard, and now it is just her.

She passes by a magazine stand, where a picture of her sits on the cover of a magazine. The cover reads Les femmes française notablement and lists her and several other women whose names she can't place.

She keeps walking.

By the time she has her boots on and steps on the ice, it is 1:02 in the afternoon.

"You're late," Moira calls from the west end.

Moira stands as she always does, perched against the far west wall, towering over even Amélie's frame with that same disdainful look. The constant criticism doesn't really get to Amélie — she is only concerned with perfection, only concerned with getting those gold medals, and Moira certainly helps her get them.

All she has to do is keep getting golds. All she has to do is get to the Olympics. She has to get there, she has to get that gold. For Gérard.

"Show me your program jumps," Moira says, unmoving, arms crossed over her chest. "One by one."

Amélie complies, allowing herself a quick couple of laps around the rink to warm herself up. She rounds out into her triple salchow, but it's under rotated by just a hair, which Moira is quick to correct her on. They go again and again until her jumps are perfect, and Moira exits the ice to watch Amélie practice her short program.

Her song is something classical, the same sort of unremarkable music she's been skating to since she began her singles career, but it does the job. She gets the scores, she gets the golds and she makes the numbers. She couldn't care about much else.

"Acceptable," is all the compliment she gets from Moira, before she laces up her skates and heads home.

It's only four in the afternoon when she returns home for the night, and she despises it. There is nothing to do at home, except remember. She could not bear to leave her and Gérard's precious flat, small though it was.

There are little reminders of him here, hints of his smell stuck to the walls and bits of his personality scattered throughout the place. His house keys remain on the hook next to the door, right next to where Amélie places her own. His skates hang from the wall, directly above a pair of shadow boxes with the last medals they earned together. His humidor lays on the entry table next to the balcony door, with an unfinished pack of his favorite cigarettes lain inside.

She goes to water the plants, his special little project that she works tirelessly to keep up. She doesn't know a thing about plants, or gardening, and was fairly certain she had a black thumb before all this. But she is able to keep them all alive, keep them flourishing and bright.

Amelie sets the watering can down and places her hands on the kitchen island, trying to will away the tears in her eyes.

* * *

 

LONDON, ENGLAND  
11 OCT 2074  
5:23 PM LOCAL

Lena slumps, exhausted, against the couch as she gently closes the door behind her with her foot. It's warm for October, sweat pouring through her clothes from her training session and the warm, muggy air outside. She makes a point to open all the windows before she hops in the shower. She feels much better when she comes out, toweling off her hair as she lounges in a t-shirt and briefs to flip through cable.

“It is freezing outside!” Emily remarks as she opens the door to their apartment, and goes to unwrap her scarf before she notices the open windows. “And inside too, evidently.”

Lena gives Emily an apologetic grin, stealing a quick kiss as she jumps up to close the windows. “Sorry, love. Was sweating my tailbone off after practice.”

“You could try taking home the tube for once instead of walking, might let you cool off.”

And give your ankle some rest is unspoken.

“Nah,” Lena replies, "got too much energy for that."

They settle into their familiar evening routine. Lena begins to cook dinner, and Emily practices. It's one of Lena's favorite parts of the night, listening to the beautiful sounds of string that Emily plays. She can't quite grasp the technicalities that come with playing a string instrument, so she lets Emily play for her. It calms her, fills her with peace much like stepping on the ice does.

She loves watching Emily as she plays, too. Her hair falls in gentle waves of copper, face relaxed. Every so often her eyebrows knit together in concentration, as her nimble fingers flow through a set of sixteenth notes and slurs, before shifting into a soft melody. Lena hums along to the familiar tune, having heard it dozens of times in the last week, finishing up dinner and setting their plates on their tiny dinner table.

It's just the two of them in their flat, so they don't need much. A couch and an easy chair, a telly so they can catch up on news and watch their shows. A queen sized bed in their matchbox of a bedroom, enough closet space for the both of them. A shower they could comfortably fit in together, and their one true luxury — a large bathtub, big enough for four to fit comfortably in, a way to relax together after long days and rough weeks. Lena isn't ashamed to admit the ridiculous amount of money they spend on bath products.

They sink into a bath together after dinner, the soothing scent of lavender drifting up from the steaming water. Lena loves the feeling of cuddling in a candlelit bath, loves the feel of Emily's skin on hers. Emily lays back into her chest, snug between Lena's long legs.

Lena places a kiss at her neck, grinning at the sound of Emily's delighted giggles. Her girlfriend hums and cranes her neck farther, encouraging the playful kisses. Lena continues, lathing open mouthed kisses at her girlfriend's neck, reveling in the familiar arch of Emily's back, the way her legs part open just a little farther. She allows her hands to trail along Emily's skin, stopping for a moment to cup a breast in her hands. She squeezes and kneads at them, caught up in how much she loves her girlfriend's body.

Emily turns back, grinning, letting out a contented moan as Lena's hand slips deeper down into the water.

"What's on the agenda tonight, love?"

"A little celebrating before my flight, maybe?"

"Oh, darling, I'd have nothing less."

* * *

PARIS, FRANCE  
12 OCT 2074  
9:00 AM LOCAL 

Amélie sits, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap. The room is undoubtedly made to be comfortable, an essential oil diffuser filling the room with the refreshing scent of lemongrass. There are several plush seating choices, and she chooses the same one she alway does: an arm-chair situated in the corner. Her therapist sits in the chair across from her, leaning back and waiting for her to talk.

She doesn't.

"So, what's going on today, Amélie? Anything new?"

Amélie takes a breath, choosing to look out the window next to her instead of meeting his eyes.

"No, nothing much new. I'll be going to America next week for the beginning of the Grand Prix season."

"How do you expect to do there?"

"Fine. As I have before."

There is another uncomfortable silence, Amélie's hands wringing her lap. She continues to stare out the window, watching rain drops race one another down the glass pane. She can see the therapist's reflection in the window, can see him looking at her almost expectantly, but patiently. As if he expects their sessions to change after a year. As if he expects some outpouring of grief from her now, all of a sudden.

"It looks as if something's bothering you," he says, voice gentle and his tone even. "Is there?"

Amélie pauses for a moment, her gaze shifting to her fingernails. Oh, she needs these redone. The paint is chipping, and her acrylics could probably do for another fill. She'll get it done in Seattle, likely, so they were fresh for the competition. She finds herself picking at the flakes.

"I'm worried about my plants," she says with a sigh, after she could tell he wasn't going to drop the subject. "I don't have anyone to watch them. I'll probably ask my neighbor to watch them again."

"You've put a lot of care into your plants, it's understandable you want to keep them well while you're gone."

Amélie narrows her eyes as she continues to pick at her nails. Statements like that always come before a challenge. A challenge to do better, a challenge to move on, a challenge to forget.

"How long have you been caring for these plants?"

"Almost a year, now."

He smiles a bit. "Since Gérard died, yes?"

Amelie looks back out the window. There must have been an accident when she wasn't looking. She watches the lights flash through the rain-streaked window pane.

"Yes, they were his plants. I began taking care of them after...the accident."

"Amélie, can you try something for me?"

It doesn't matter what she answers. He will ask her anyway.

"Fine," she replies.

"Amélie, I worry that you are grasping so deeply onto the past. You cannot move past your grief. You think that maybe if you believe hard enough, if you avoid long enough he will come back. Would you agree with that?" She doesn't respond. "Amélie, can you say the words, 'Gérard has died' for me?"

Amélie stands up abruptly, almost knocking over her water bottle in the process. She picks it up and places it in her purse, before giving her therapist a tight smile. "Thank you, but I think I'm done for the day. I will see you when I return in two weeks. Thank you for your time today."

She grips the railing tight as she descends the stairs, the sound of her heels clicking echoes throughout the lobby. She pulls out her anxiety medication out of her purse, and takes it. The rattling of the pills as her hands shake seem extra loud in the quiet of the lobby, where a few other clients wait for their own appointment. They pay her no mind, too enthralled in their own minds, much like she is.

She presses her phone to her ear as she exits into the cool fall breeze.

"Bonjour, Bastille. Do you have time for a session today? Bien. I will see you shortly."


	3. but you took your toll on me

**EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH 2-TIME OLYMPIC MEDALIST FAREEHA AMARI**

  
**LEONARD ROBOTI:** Thank you so much for joining us today, Ms. Amari.  
**FAREEHA AMARI:** Please, call me Fareeha. And it's my pleasure.  
**LR** : So tell us how your first year post-retirement has been.  
**FA:** Oh, it's been wonderful! It was a strange adjustment at first, of course. But I still have a lot of the same daily routine. I keep up with a lot of my fitness routines —  
**LR:** And you look fabulous.  
**FA:** Ah, thank you. I've been able to delve more into some other hobbies, start a new career for myself.  
**LR:** And what is that, if you don't mind me asking?  
**FA:** I'll actually be going into the military back home.  
**LR:** Well, we wish you all the best in your new career! How is your love life doing? We have seen you galavanting around – London, lately, is it? With a mystery woman!  
**FA:** [ _laughs_ ] Um, yes. My partner and I have been dating for several years now, and I've been taking the time I've had off to pay her some much needed attention.  
**LR:** How does she feel about your new career?  
**FA:** Oh, she's supportive of it. We both have had insane travel schedules due to work in the past, and we've always made it work. I'm pretty sure our local airports recognize us on sight by now.  
**LR:** That is just wonderful to hear. Alright, now to the questions I'm sure our readers are dying to hear. What do you think about this upcoming season?  
**FA:** Well, it's going to be an interesting one, that's for sure.  
**LR:** Anything you're looking forward to?  
**FA:** Well, everyone's new programs, of course. I am always pleasantly surprised to watch new programs, and I get to experience it with maybe a little more appreciation this season since I'm not competing. I get to cheer on my friends now, without the weird "But also I want to beat you" tacked onto it.  
**LR:** Anyone in particular we should watch out for this year?  
**FA:** Well, Amelie Lacroix always does well, and I'm sure this year will be no exception. I've peeked a little on some other programs, bits and pieces, done some fill in coaching for some friends. I really think some programs this year are gonna blow people out of the water.  
**LR** : Who do you think is the underdog of this year?  
**FA:** Well, I might be biased because she's my friend, and I helped choreograph a lot of her program, but Lena Oxton is gonna really rise up here. She's been in the top ten her last couple years, and was getting ready to head to the '72 Olympics when she broke her ankle. She has been working her butt off with [physical therapy], and her show looks amazing. I'm so excited to see how she'll score this year.  
**LR:** We look forward to seeing it too! Thank you so much for joining us.

**UP NEXT, SKATE AMERICA IN ONE WEEK. CAST YOUR VOTE: WHO DO YOU THINK WILL PLACE GOLD? WHO WILL FUMBLE? TUNE IN ON 19 OCT, SCHEDULE FOR FULL EVENTS BELOW.**

* * *

 

PARIS, FRANCE  
12 OCT 2074  
10:52 LOCAL

There are few things in life any more that truly make Amélie feel anything. Most of life for her now is a listless haze, floating through if only to avoid the deeper chasm that awaits her if she dares touch her feet to the ground. She's perfectly aware that she's treading a thin line between depression and catatonia. But she doesn't know what will become of her in the free fall, so she chooses the numbness over uncertainty.

Her sessions with Baptiste are one of the few things that trudge up anything in her, even if it is only anger and annoyance. She hates his dialect of Créole, thinks to herself the whole time about how much she wants to throttle him as he pushes and pushes and _pushes_. He knows it, too, spewing out more slang than normal just to rile her up.

He's pulled her into the kickboxing ring, wearing pads for her to punch and kick all she likes. He taunts her gently all the while, as she throws punch after punch. By the time she's done, sweat drips down her face and she feels grotesque, but completely satisfied. Her head feels light as she chugs down a bottle of water, laying a dainty hand on Baptiste's shoulder.

"Thank you," Amélie says with a deep exhale. "I needed that."

"Of course," Baptiste replies, slinging a cool, damp towel over her shoulders. "Wanna talk about it?"

 _Not really_.

"Just therapy," is all she says.

He knows not to press more than that, to which she's thankful for. He remembers the way she looked when she came back for their first session after she got out of the hospital — ghastly, sallow, like nothing human. She calls him outside of their usual sessions suspiciously regularly, always in the morning —it's not hard to decipher, she knows.

Her hands itch for a smoke as they sit on the veranda outside, but it's a habit she's long kept herself from indulging in. She needs her lungs at maximum capacity, for now. She can start smoking again once she's old, once her time dancing and skating is up. She clicks her nails together instead, just for something to do with her hands.

"Baptiste, what did you want to be when you grew up?"

He laughs at the odd question. "Gods, I don't know. I went through so many things. I think I...wanted to play football, probably."

Baptiste is remarkably gorgeous. Thick, full of corded muscles that shine even under the cloudy sky. His smile is bright, infectious, eyes warm and full of care. His smile reminds her a little of Gérard.

"All I ever wanted to be was a dancer," she says, taking a sip out of her water bottle. "Tell me, what will you do when you are too old to box? When you can't keep up physically?"

"Train, probably. Why? What will you do?"

"I have always wondered, when I am no longer able to dance, when my body physically cannot go on anymore, what then?"

"You can train. You can teach. Teaching is a beautiful thing."

"For some, for you, maybe. Not for me. The stage is where I was born and bred. I do not belong in the wings, my dear Baptiste."

"So? What will you do then?"

Amélie smiles wryly, and she can envision Gérard blowing out a ring of smoke from his cigarette, staring out onto the parkway. "I don't have a damn clue."

* * *

 

LONDON, ENGLAND  
13 OCT 2074  
6:23 PM LOCAL

 

The sounds of a tuning orchestra would annoy most people. Chaotic, disjointed, just not quite _right_ — strings stretching and changing to get in tune. The sound of idle chatter as they bow at their A strings discordantly, the conductor flipping through the days sheet music to remind himself of his notes while they warm up. Staggered scales fill the room, none quite in sync, as the musicians ready their fingers for the long session of practice. 

To Emily, it is like a song of angels.

She thrives in the cacophony of sounds descending into silence, before an explosion of instruments in perfect harmony. She revels in the sounds of overlapping melodies, the deep thrum of the cello vibrating in her chest as she bows delicately at her own violin, the quick jaunting tune cascading through A major.

She appreciates having a flexible schedule. It makes the days, weeks sometimes, when Lena is gone not quite so unbearable. She can throw herself into practice, into extra lessons, into gigs so that the days are so exhausting and blurry that it only hurts a little when she falls asleep in bed alone.

She can’t find herself to fault Lena for it, either. It’s Lena’s dream, Lena’s passion, just like music is to Emily. That’s part of the reason they fit so well together, understanding a love performing and the thrill of the stage.

But it hurts to go home alone. It hurts to know Lena is somewhere halfway across the world just as lonely as she is, exhausting herself just so they don’t have to think quite so hard about the other’s touch. Lena leaves in the morning, and they’d probably tire themselves out all night so they wouldn’t have to think about it.

And she’s right.

She walks into their flat, shrugging off her heavy coat to lay it across the loveseat and call out for Lena.

“In here, love!” Lena calls, from the bedroom.

"You vixen," Emily gasps, biting her lip as she drinks in Lena from top to bottom.

Of course, she’s wearing the lingerie set that Emily so loves. It’s a soft peach, the light color highlighting Lena’s deep tan, her gorgeous sun-kissed skin. The lace edges pull tight at the curves of Lena’s hips, skim at the tops of her thighs that lead to her long, smooth legs. They kiss, hot and breathless, slow and romantic. Lena helps Emily out of her clothes, tossed haphazardly on the floor as she climbs into bed, crawling on top of her lover.

They always spend the night before a flight like this, wrapped up in each others arms, as if it was the last night they’d see each other. Emily wishes she was brave enough to understand the psychology behind it, but she doesn’t dare.

They know each other's hands on each other all too well, and although Lena's hands that roam at her bare skin are not her own, she almost knows where they will go before they do. Lena is already dripping, and Emily savors the taste. She takes her time, fingers teasing and parting, watching Lena come undone beneath her.

“You’re so beautiful,” Emily croons, ginger eyelashes fluttering along her cheeks as Lena clenches around her fingers. Mouth open in ecstasy, eyes trying so hard to stay open long enough to look at her.

“ _Emily_ ,” Lena sighs, eyebrows knitting together, a hand coming up to clutch at her free arm. “ _Em_ , shit, I’m—”

“That’s right, sweetheart,” she murmurs, peppering kisses on Lena’s sweat-sheened head. “Come on, love, you can do it.”

Lena comes with a gasping shudder, hips rolling along with Emily’s fingers to chase her orgasm. Her legs finally give out, gently closing around Emily’s hand and squeezing — her non-verbal sign for “I’m done.”

Emily lays back with a satisfied huff, pulling Lena onto her chest. They lay like this for a while, basking in their own afterglow. She strokes her lover’s hair, every so often straying to trace the freckles at her shoulders, feeling utterly satisfied in the warmth emanating from the two of them. Her life with Lena is picturesque, the two of them blending seamlessly, but they both know they’re missing something.

Polyamory has been a discussed and agreed upon condition of their relationship since the beginning. Partners have come and gone, whether they were fleeting or serious, but no one stays. They’re either too intimidated by the strength of the bond between the two or not interested in becoming part of something so serious. They miss having a third, but it just never pans out.

They take their bed warmers where they can, especially when they have to be apart. A few “friends with benefits” who know them, who they trust, where they don’t have to go through the exhausting negotiation process time and time again every time they’re lonely.

But it’s not the same. Not by a long shot.

“I’ve gotta wash up and head out,” Lena murmurs, her quiet voice breaking through the silence. “Wanna hop in with me?”

Emily kisses the top of her head. “Please.”

* * *

 

SEATTLE, USA  
14 OCT 2074  
9:41 PM LOCAL 

She remembers this hotel.

Her and Gérard stayed here, once. The first year they came to Skate America they stayed here, eyes bright and awash by all the luxury. They had the grandest time, here.

She remembers the suite they had paid out of pocket to upgrade, their own jacuzzi in their bathroom and room service whenever they wanted it. They had put on face masks, drank champagne and giggled the night away. Romantic music spilt throughout the room, and they danced completely nude before ravishing each other for hours. Their secret honeymoon, their secret kisses, their life of new luxury, of fame and pleasure.

Reality is far too harsh, she remarks to herself.

She sits now in the jacuzzi for her suite wing, trying to allow herself to relax all her muscles after the long flight. The American competitions are always the worst, the long flights uncomfortable and crowded, even in first class. The pool bubbles around her, warm and inviting, and she finds herself sinking into it as she allows her mind drifting off.

They were so tired that next day, their makeup artist complaining about how much concealer she had to use for the dark circles under their eyes. They had smiled and winked at each other, not a regret in sight. They were exhausted after it all, limbs heavy and eyes dry and tired. They had curled up with one another, wrapped in each others scent, and slept deeply.

The pool door opens somewhere across the room, the light padding of feet echoing across the tiled floor and walls, as it grows slowly closer.

“I’m sorry, do you mind if I join you?” a light voice asks.

“Of course,” she replies, gesturing across the pool. “Please.”

Amélie can’t help but take a look at the stranger that dips into the pool across from her, sighing in gratitude as she sinks into the warm bubbles. Cute, lanky, with strong legs and core. She has the cutest button nose, freckles spattered across her cheeks, her shoulders, her knees. Familiar, a performer, the name on the tip of her tongue —

“Lena Oxton, correct?” Amélie asks, tilting her head.

She watches with amusement as a blush spreads across Lena’s cheeks, though if its from her words or the steam, she can’t say. Lena stumbles over her words for a moment, smiling sheepishly.

“I’m surprised you know my name,” Lena retorts, trying to cover for her slip up. “I feel like I’m far beneath your radar.”

“Not at all,” Amélie says, fingers gently tracing shapes in the water and it rumbles beneath the surface. She had just gotten her nails done again that morning, a crisp, shiny black. The lacquer shines dark against her pale skin, their shape mottled by the bubbles as they dip beneath the surface. “I’m actually quite a fan. Gérard and I thought it was so sad when you broke your ankle right before. You were our underdog.”

Lena smiles — ah, and _there’s_ a real, genuine flush, smile stretching across her cheeks. Her brown eyes crinkle at the corners as she tucks a strand of her messy hair behind her ear.

“That means a lot coming from you,” Lena replies, meeting her eyes for the first time. “Thank you.”

There’s a comfortable silence, something Amélie has not experienced in quite a long time. They both sit, soaking in the comfort of the water. Amélie imagines that Lena has just come off a long flight of her own, if the stiff cracking of joints as her bones settle are any indication.

For the first time in a long time, it is Amélie who feels compelled to break the silence.

“The flight from Europe is just dreadful, _non_?” she remarks, eyes closed. “Never enough leg room.”

Lena laughs, and it is like a tinkling of a bell. Her accent is what Amélie would describe as “dreadfully London” but she can’t find even a speck of annoyance at it.

“God, right? I’ve always got to have one of the first aisle seats, too, to elevate my ankle during the pressure changes. It’s still dreadful.”

“Is it still a problem?”

This hinges on dangerous territory, she knows. Sabotage is frequent in the world of performing arts, though the ISF takes it much more seriously than most organizations, she’s found. But words exchanged like these between rivals are infrequent at best, and always dangerous.

Not that she'd call them rivals, per say. Lena's always placed far beneath her, barely skimming the top ten since her stint beginning into women's singles. Amélie's not worried, though she'd be a fool to dismiss the woman completely.

Whether it’s through naïvety or some profound sense of trust for Amélie, Lena answers without a beat. She has her long legs strewn over the step beneath her, and even through the bubbles, Amélie can see that it’s not quite right. Just a little too swollen for her lanky form, the bulging forms of her ankle bones just a little out of place.

“It’s…not pleasant,” she admits, grimacing. “I’ll be honest, Amélie, I don’t know how many more seasons I’ve got left on it. I hope to make it to the Olympics, at least.”

It has been so long since a stranger has called her Amélie so easily, without a second thought or glance. It’s refreshing, in a way.

It’s _always Mrs. Lacroix_ this, and _Mrs. Lacroix_ that, and “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Lacroix” and “Whatever you need, Mrs. Lacroix.” She has not been simply _Amélie_ in far too long.

She realizes in an instant that _that_ is what seems so different about Lena. She hasn’t tried sucking up, hasn’t apologized for _her loss_ — of whom she has never met. Her stutters are endearing, cute even. Lena is simply herself, true and unapologetic and it has been so _desperately_ long since she’s come across this kind of honesty.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Amélie finds herself saying, voice soft over the dull roar of the water. “You’re a beautiful performer.”

“L-Likewise,” Lena murmurs. Sweat sheens over her forehead, her tan skin glistening under the buzzing fluorescents overhead. Her own skin is flushed pink from the warmth, droplets of sweat beginning to drip down her scalp under her thick head of hair.

“It’s time for me to step out, I think,” Amélie remarks, standing up finally and drying herself out. “But we should grab a coffee before we leave Seattle, _ouais_?”

Lena blinks, surprised at the offer, before hastily nodding. “Yeah, that sounds great, love!”

“Excellent,” she says, wrapping her bathrobe around herself. “I’m in Suite 342. Stop by any time, darling.”

Amélie’s not quite sure what the hell she’s doing, jerking this poor girl around like this. She's not sure why she feels so compelled to flirt with her, why her chest buzzes with light for the first time in years when she watches Lena smile. But the satisfaction from Lena’s blushing face is worth the trip to hell, probably.

* * *

 

SEATTLE, USA  
14 OCT 2074  
10:21 PM LOCAL

“Em, I’m telling you, she was _flirting_ with me! _The_ Amélie Lacroix was fucking flirting with _me_!”

And if Lena was being honest with herself, she liked it. And she flirted back.

She’s never seen Amélie that _close_ before. Of course, she’s seen her across the warmup room, and her face splashed across all the tabloids. But that’s not the _real_ Amélie. That’s someone that’s been engineered, someone created to sell a product.

She saw the real Amélie not thirty minutes ago. The real Amélie has a tiny, upturned nose, with dark rosy lips. The real Amélie has soft, but piercing golden eyes and a smile that stirs something deep in her gut. The real Amélie, with no makeup and hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun and baby hairs sticking to her forehead with sweat, is absolutely _breathtaking._

The real Amélie had invited her out to coffee.

Lena is so, _so gay._

“ _Okay, so_ if _she was_ ,” Emily replies, her smug smile teasing even from thousands of kilometers away, “ _what the hell are you going to do about it_?”

Lena opens her mouth, and closes it. Opens, and closes.

“ _Uh huh. That’s what I thought. You useless lesbian_.”

“Shut up, Em,” Lena pouts, dragging out her girlfriend’s name. “She said we should get coffee before we head back home. So I’m gonna do that! And she gave me her suite number! So I’m gonna do that! Just go over, and invite her out!”

“ _Lena Oxton, master of suave, is going to go ask out one of the most famously beautiful and talented women in the world, just like that? Hmm... Why is it that I don’t believe you?_ ”

“B—Because you are a big meanie face...”

 Lena pouts.

“ _No, I think it’s because I literally told you ‘I’d like to take you out on a date’ and you were surprised when I kissed you at the end because you thought I meant ‘as friends.’”_

“This is no time for semantics, Em!”

Emily laughs, the delightful sound distorted through the phone connection. It's bright there, the sunlight streaming in through the windows behind her. Lena tries to suppress a yawn, but she can't help it. She's been up for almost twenty four hours, and jet lag is never kind to her.

" _Get some sleep, darling_ ," Emily says with a gentle smile. " _You'll have a clear head in the morning_ ,"

"Right," Lena says, letting loose a big, satisfying yawn. "I miss you, Em. Almost done with this sleepin' apart stuff."

"I know," Emily replies, reaching her hand out for a moment, then pulling back with a sad, sheepish smile. They do it far too often, reaching out to touch the other only to remember they're apart. "I miss you too, honey. Get some sleep, okay? I love you, Lena."

"I love you too, Emily. Goodnight."

Sleep is always hard without Emily, with a big fluffy bed all to herself in a strange hotel. But she's used to it by now, knows how to tucker herself out enough to sleep. She wraps herself in the blankets and tosses her leg over a pillow like she usually does to Em and relaxes into the soft bed.

As she does, visions of Amélie sauntering out of the jacuzzi flash across her mind. Rivulets of water drip down, following the soft curves of her body. They dip into the hollows of her collarbone, that soft delectable flesh between her breasts, the plush curve of her ass.

_Jesus, Mary and Joseph, her ass..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i reminded myself that i have not condemned this to be a slow burn, and thank g*d for that


	4. as the banks began to break

SEATTLE, USA  
16 OCT 2074  
6:54 AM LOCAL 

It is the morning of the Women's competition and the arena is bustling.

Staff are running around to get last minute preparations in before spectators begin to arrive in merely forty-five minutes time, and all the competitors are getting in last minute practice around the city. The top ten and the bottom ten are lucky enough to get reserved ice time at the Sonics Arena before they open to the public.

Lena shakily finishes lacing her boots, stretching on the padded floor near the ice while she waits for her time on the ice. She spots Amélie across the room, stretching effortlessly into an arabesque. She can't help but watch the woman, the way her limbs hold a sense of elegance and grace so effortlessly. She was made for the stage and spotlights, every fiber of her being delicately designated to perform.

She is mesmerizing to watch, and Lena realizes she has maybe never seen her perform, only vaguely in the recap videos. It's not the same, she knows, and she's excited to see Amélie actually perform.

It's not necessarily a rule, but a custom among the top ten to give the top dog a full show run in the morning practice. Lena's not sure when it started, but it's been this way as long as she can remember — the perfect example of the plastic politeness she finds all too often among other competitors. "A courtesy" it's called, since the one slated to win skates last, but also a chance for the competitors to play mind games and to see what they're up against.

Amélie has certainly dressed to impress. She is dressed in what must be one of her performance dresses, an impressive piece of sheer and silk, Swarovski crystals sparkling in the lace as she shifts through her warm-ups. Glitter is woven throughout the tight, sleek braids that pull delicately at the sides of her head.

Lena imagines how she looks comparatively, dressed simply in her black over-the-boot leggings and a jumper, bangs haphazardly braided to keep them out of the way. She almost dares to blush, as if she has been caught unawares.

 _Everyone else looks just like you_ , she tells herself firmly, trying to avoid staring. _You're not here to impress her, you're here to compete_.

It's at this moment that Angela arrives and begins going over the problem areas that Lena needs to focus on. She takes the direction thankfully, willing herself to think of anything but the beautiful, talented woman that has seemed to encompass her thoughts for the last two days.

"How are you feeling?" Angela asks, tucking her hands into her puffy mint jacket.

"Tired," she replies. "Okay, otherwise. I'll take a quick nap after my short."

"Good," Angela replies, doing her usual poking and prodding at Lena. "Ate breakfast? Took your vitamins?"

"Yes, mum," Lena says cheekily. "Plenty of protein and fruit. I have a protein shake to sip on for the hour before my ice time."

Finally, it is her turn to go on the ice. She's barely slid into the top ten qualification, but she would fight her way tooth and nail to keep it. She hopes to rise up to the top five this year, but she knows that won't happen unless she gives it her all.

Her practice goes as expected. Her ankle still hurts like a bitch, but some ibuprofen and the adrenaline of performance will make it bearable enough to perform on. She feels like she can feel the weight of Amélie's gaze on her throughout her ice time, but she knows this must just be her imagination.

...Right?

Before she knows it, it's time for the cold run of Amélie's short program. The chatter around them quiets as she takes the ice, the shimmer of her dress twinkling along with her. Everything about her is pristine, from her freshly done nails, the boots free of scuffs and scratches, to her impeccably sharp eyeliner. She sinks into her opening pose, takes three deep breaths at the lights around them dim.

When the music starts, Amélie's eyes snap open and she comes _alive._

Lena doesn't think she's ever seen anything quite like it. Ever since she was a child, she's always been fascinated with the way skaters move, how they perform, and if she could, she would equate it down to a science. But there's something in the way that Amélie moves that can really only be seen in the flesh.

She understands very vividly why she has always placed first.

Amélie holds a magic to her, fluttering and confident, as if she is simply floating on the ice. She preps for a triple lutz, and though Lena intimately knows the strength and speed that must go into it, Amélie does it as though she is simply breathing. The music crescendos as she steps into her footwork sequence, each turn of her blades perfectly executed, nothing out of place.

Lena stares in awe, hands practically gripping the baseboards so tight her knuckles are white. She can't take her eyes off of Amélie, can't stop analyzing the grace and beauty she displays. Amélie's arm stretches out as she relaxes out of her arabesque, the sheer skirt of her dress flitting around her.

And then she looks at Lena.

Lena could swear there's a half smile on Amélie's face, golden eyes staring directly into her own. They say something that Lena can't quite decipher at the moment, but she knows that it makes her heart beat faster in her chest. She looks away, embarrassed, feeling the heat of a blush rising to her cheeks.

It's been a while since she has been this infatuated with anyone — since Emily, really, if she's being absolutely honest with herself. But she can't deny the way her heart flutters and soars, the heat that rises in her when they lock eyes. She can't deny that Amélie is gorgeous, talented and…most of all, has that _something_ that Lena can't quite describe. It's a magnetic pull, a strange, unconscious desire to get to know her. 

The same way she had with Emily the first night she saw her perform at a little pub in Hanover while on holiday.

There is no roar of applause as Amélie sinks into her ending pose, though the blood that rushes in Lena's ears makes up for it plenty.

She swears that Amélie throws her a wink behind her coach's back.

 _Oh wow, I'm gay_.

* * *

 

SEATTLE, USA  
16 OCT 2074  
5:21 PM LOCAL

It has been a long day.

Amélie isn't done yet, either. She's up in the next hour to perform her free skate, but she can't help but think about Lena.

The awe-stricken gaze she had caught the woman with had been strangely endearing. That is to say, she's used to — and relishes — the starstuck stares as she performs, but Lena's feels different. It hadn't been adoration or jealousy like so many of her competitors sneer at her with, but respect. There was something in it that was...pure, for the lack of a better descriptor. And the way she had turned her head and blushed when she had been caught...

Amélie might say she's smitten, but she's not sure if that's even possible for her. Can she even love someone after Gérard? Could she bring herself to stomach the guilt even if she finds that she can?

Regardless, she can't deny that Lena has piqued her interest. Which is why she stands at the sideboards, in the shadows, waiting to watch Lena's free skate. She can hear the whispers already — most skaters are superstitious, won't watch another's performance before their own. Amelie could suppose this is a belief she used to have, in the days that it mattered — though it doesn't anymore.

Tonight, Amelie's curiosity has beat out her desire to go as relatively unnoticed as she's able, hands tucked into her jumper pockets.

Lena is listening to her coach for the last minute before she's set to go on, the competitor before her getting her scores read out in the kiss and cry. Olivia Colomar scores well, but she had fallen twice during her free skate and that was going to cost her dearly. Amélie can already imagine Olivia's unhappy scowl — she never bothered to hide it, even for the cameras.

Lena's eyes flit up to Amélie's, and she almost feels embarrassed at the idea of being noticed.

_How the tables turn..._

Refusing to be caught off guard, she lets out a slow smile and mouths, " _Bonne chance_."

Lena smiles sheepishly and nods to her, her coach still blathering in her ear, picking at her hair to make sure it was pristine. Her dress shimmers with crystals similar to her own and many others, intricate lace fading from a deep royal blue to a soft cyan. The lace crawls down her arms, leaving the skin of her shoulders exposed except for a pale mesh to match her skin.

She steps onto the ice with a firm confidence, a wide smile stretching out over her face. She performs even during her warm-up laps, waving to the spectators, though Amélie can see how she is calculating everything in her head, as she herself often does. Lena spares a quick glance to her as she settles into her starting pose, and Amélie can't help but grant her another warm smile.

The music doesn't fit what Amélie thinks of Lena's personality, slow and building, a harmonious voice filled with strength booming throughout the arena. Lena skates beautifully, thick legs full of strength and confidence with every stride. Lena knows how not only to command her body, but to capture an audience as well. Lena performs with her entire being, her body, face and soul, baring it all before the spectators in front of her.

But Amelie can't stop focusing on the lyrics to the song, chilling her to the bone.

She listens to the words as Lena's skates carve deep ridges into the ice, applause rupturing throughout the stadium as successfully lands triple after triple. She's not sure why, but she feels Gérard with her in this moment. She feels it in her chest, rising and expanding and she has to blink away the tears in her eyes.

"[ _I know you're bleeding but you'll be okay_ ,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9vi5iYvTrFQ)" the song bellows throughout the stadium, but she can almost hear Gérard murmuring it in her ear, just like he used to.

She has to go. She has to leave. She can't do this, can't deal with this here and now, right before she's about to step on the ice. Her hands shake as they fist in her jacket, nails digging into her palms.

She feels awful, watching Lena circle gracefully on the ice, pulling herself into a pristine Biellmann, blades shaving perfect circles underneath her. She feels a pull to keep watching her, mesmerized by a talent she hasn't been impressed with since — …since… 

" _Some things you have to let go in order to live,_ " the arena stereo belts out, and she can swear it's — it's Gérard's voice, oh God, his hand on her waist, his lips on her neck —

She can still hear the music as she stumbles back into the halls where her dressing room is, avoiding the shocked and intrigued stares as she practically runs down the hall. She has mascara smudging from the tears she has blinked away, and no doubt there will be something going around in the rumor mill. She's finally had her breakdown about Gérard, she's finally lost it, everyone was just waiting anyway —

Moira finds her ten minutes until ice time, huddled into a corner in her dressing room with tears running down her face. Amélie looks up at her, no doubt looking absolutely pathetic, expecting some kind of snide remark. But Moira says nothing, only pulls her into a chair and fixes her makeup wordlessly. It is maybe the kindest thing her coach has ever done for her.

"Can you go on?" Moira asks, an eyebrow cocked above one of her mismatching eyes.

Amélie nods. "Yes, I'll be fine to perform."

She's not sure if she's telling the truth, to be honest. There are times when she can stuff those emotions deep inside her, but there are also times where she cannot stop the grief in the her chest from overtaking her. Those days are the worst, where she is quarantined in her room, clutching some item of his that seemed to cling to the scent of his cologne. It is always things like this that take her by surprise, remind her of her loss when she is least expecting it.

She hopes that today, at least for the next seven minutes, she can keep it together.

* * *

 

SEATTLE, USA  
17 OCT 2074  
9:17 AM LOCAL 

"Okay, you can do this," Lena tells herself, pacing back and forth across her hotel room. "You can do this, just go over and ask her out for coffee. She even invited you — Em are you _sure_ I look okay?"

Emily rolls her eyes on the video chat, eyes tired as she cuddles her chin into a pillow. It's dark there, clock ticking down into the early hours of the morning. Emily has rehearsal early in the morning.

" _Yes darling, you look fantastic. Those leggings show off your ass, and your hair is perfectly disheveled as always._ "

Lena pouts, though she admittedly gives herself another once over in the mirror. "You're not just saying that, right?"

" _Lena Oxton, if you don't go over there and ask her out I'm gonna have a stroke and die and it'll be all your fault._ "

"Okay, okay. I love you."

" _I love you too, go get some ass honey_."

She can't deny that she's a little worried. Amélie had shown up to watch her free skate, but had completely disappeared by the time Lena had stepped off the ice. She tells herself that Amélie just had to get ready for her own skate, but Satya Vaswani had come up to her on her way back to her dressing room and whispered that Amélie had left the arena crying during her skate.

Lena tends not to believe the rumor mill, especially from other competitors _regarding_ other competitors — a classic psych out technique — but this one seems to dig under her skin a little more than usual. She's not sure if it's because she has a crush, or if it's because _the_ Amélie Lacroix, _who never_ has watched another competitors program _ever,_ had watched hers.

And then supposedly ran out crying.

Okay, so she's nervous as hell.

She tries to channel the confidence from her latest victory as she strides towards Amélie's room. She had increased ten points from last year's SA, and had jumped from her projected tenth place scoring to fifth place. She knows part of it was Olivia's hardcore fumbles from a program not quite ready, part of it was luck and most of it was real improvement.

And…maybe the confidence from knowing that Amélie was watching. For the first time in a while, she had really wanted to impress someone other than the judges.

Lena breathes a little shakily, jumping up and down on her heels a little as she knocks on the door of 342. It's taking just a little longer than what she expected, and she's about to turn around and book it back to her room. But the door finally opens.

Standing there is Amélie, just as tall and gorgeous as ever, but…

From the small crack that she has opened in the door, Lena can see that her eyes are rimmed red, her pale cheeks and nose blotchy and rubbed raw. She gives Lena a small smile, though it is strained and clearly only for politeness.

" _Bonjour,_ Lena," she greets, and her voice is scratchy. She has to clear her throat for a second before she continues. "Congratulations on your skate. You did beautifully."

Despite that she knows there's more going on, Lena can't stop the way her heart flutters and her breath catches in her throat. It feels selfish.

"Um, thank you," she stutters, feeling drastically more unprepared for this interaction than she already was. "That means a lot coming from you. You... You were beautiful, Amélie."

The words catch in the her throat as she says them, but even so, Amélie's eyes flick up to hers, something in them that Lena can't quite read.

 "Um, I apologize but I am not quite feeling up to coffee this morning."

"No, no, that's fine, love," Lena assures almost frantically, taking the tiniest step closer. "But…are you okay?"

She laughs for a moment, the door opening wider with the motion. But she shakes her head and gives Lena the most heartbreaking smile. "No, not really."

For a moment, Lena's not sure what to do. She holds out her hands awkwardly, unsure of what to do with this…gorgeous stranger, who has tear tracks running down her face. Her hands hesitate in the space between them, wanting to touch and console, but mindful of the very clear boundaries between them.

"Do you want to talk, love? You look like you could use a friend."

Amélie stops for a moment, looking almost confused, tearful eyes wide. And then she smiles again, just like she had the night before, and Lena's heart soars. She sniffles and wipes at her cheek but opens the door wider to her room.

"Yes," she murmurs. "Yes, I think I do. Would you like to come in?"

Her long hair is thrown over her shoulder in a messy braid, likely still mussed from sleeping on it, an oversized shirt pulled on over fleece leggings. The wide neck of the shirt keeps slipping off her shoulder as she moves, exposing pale, creamy skin as she tucks herself into one of the plush armchairs. She gestures for Lena to sit with her, a weary smile on her face.

"I apologize, I don't have any coffee or tea for you..."

Lena waves her off. "Oh, I had my cuppa already this morning. Don't even worry about it."

There's an awkward kind of silence, and Lena can't help but focus on the woman in front of her. Amélie is tucked into herself, knees pulled up to her chest  even on the huge armchair, as if she is hiding. She looks so...frail here, so fragile, worlds apart from the confident aura she emitted on the ice, or even the coy demeanor when they had met in the sauna.

Here, she just looks scared.

"I came to watch your free skate," Amélie starts, almost mumbling the words, eyes fixated on a stray bit of hair the twirls around her fingers over and over again. "You were beautiful, breathtaking, even."

"Thank you," Lena stutters out, trying to calm the burning blush that spreads over her cheeks.

"I was... _qu'est-ce le mot—entranced_ by your performance. Then I noticed the lyrics to the song and..."

Amélie takes a deep inhale, and Lena finds herself holding a shaky breath of her own as she waits for her to continue.

"It was like he was there, like he was speaking to me," she whispers blinking up at Lena. "Like he was telling me that it's time to move...past it, past him and... and live again."

It takes her a moment, mouth opening to ask _who_ and then it hits her —

 _Lena. You idiot_.

She had reminded Amélie of her _dead husband_ and made her fucking _cry_.

 _Nice going, Casanova_.

Lena has no damn idea what to say, but she takes a breath and lets the words vomit out of her mouth anyway.

"Grieving is a pain that's never easy, and I know for damn sure that I can't imagine what you're going through. I don't know how to help, I don't know what to do in this situation but... I'm sorry you're hurting."

She's moved closer to the other woman almost instinctually, feeling as though she is running on pure adrenaline. She kneels on the floor next to her, a gentle, soothing hand rubbing circles into her leg. Amélie wipes a tear from her cheek with the neck of her shirt.

"You know, you are the first person to tell me something other than 'I'm sorry for your loss.'" Amélie takes a second, her breathing shaky. "Being sorry for...for that, isn't going to bring him back. We're all sorry he died but I'm the one hurting! I'm the one left behind because he's dead and I can't—"

Amélie stops for a second, blinking, as if confused by her own words. Then she bursts out into laughter, startling Lena for a moment. But even so, she can't stop herself from thinking about how beautiful the woman is in front of her, laughing with such a genuine joy. Her laughter is like the tinkling of bells, reminding Lena of the old churchyard bells behind her childhood home.

"You know," she says, voice barely above a whisper, "I've never been able to say those words before."

"I'm sorry love, you'll have to be a little more specific."

"Gérard is dead," she murmurs, hands clenching and relaxing on her thighs. "I've never been able to utter those words out loud before just now."

Amélie looks down at Lena, _really_ looks at her for the first time in this entire talk, golden eyes sparkling.

"Oh?" Lena breathes out, something in her heart clutching deep inside of her. It hurts, makes her feel oddly sick, but with the same exhilarating anticipation as a freefall.

"I think I was meant to meet you, Lena," Amélie says, reaching over and taking Lena's hand in hers. Her hands are soft, manicure precise and unbelievably warm.

Then, she leans down, never breaking eye contact as she gently presses her lips to Lena's knuckles. Lena has to practically bite her tongue to resist the urge to whimper from the feeling of warmth that surges in her chest, eyes wide.

" _Merci beaucoup, Lena_ ," Amélie murmurs, long lashes tickling Lena's hand as she blinks softly.

 _Oh God. I'm_ ** _so_** _gay_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all, so i rebranded this which is probably the first time i ever have majorly renamed a fic. 
> 
> while i had already thought of a florence song as one (let's be honest, all) of lena's skates, i heard "of various storms & saints" and it just fit...so incredibly perfectly for the entirety of amélie's character arc for this story. 
> 
> when relevant, i will try to link songs! even if you can't imagine what the skates look like — clearly i have entire programs choreographed, thanks ADHD brain — you can get the feel. 
> 
> sorry for how long this took, it's been a weird couple of weeks. thank you for continuing to read, i hope to get the next chapter up soon.


	5. oh, you got a hold on me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i won't lie, i didn't proof-read this chapter like i usually do. it's been a long day.

LONDON, ENGLAND  
24 OCT 2074  
3:15 AM LOCAL

One of Emily's favorite things to do is watch the skating performances live. She's lucky that most of the performances on the Grand Prix circuit are in or close to GMT, and she'll suffer the late nights for the couple that take place in the West.

It's the middle of the night when the top five finally take the ice for the short program warmup and she's grateful that she has the next three days off. She can't help the happy flutter her heart makes as she sees her girl take the ice. Lena looks stunning, her usually unruly hair pinned into delicate curls and practically floating in a dress made of chiffon.

Emily feels so lucky to know Lena both on and off the ice. On the ice, Lena is graceful, powerful, a larger than life personality able to morph and evolve into whatever the crowd needs her to be, whatever the judges need her to be. The real Lena is unabashedly herself, brash and joyful, full of unending life and compassion. Emily knows that her girlfriend has no greater passion than skating, than the thrill of flying through ice and air, the adrenaline rush of landing a jump, the satisfaction of rising higher and higher through the placements.

Emily can relate. Their lives are especially intertwined that way.

Emily finds her pleasure in complicated melodies and the rising challenge of intermittent key changes. She loves to let herself go in the music, regardless of the instrument she's playing. She finds that nothing can make her emotional quite like music can, regardless of the context of the situation. She is absolutely the person who will get teary-eyed at a particularly magnificent swell of a major key as a film's hero reaches his goal, or who can be brought into pure, unadulterated joy with a catchy pop song.

While she understands the choice in changing up Lena's short program this year, opting for a slow, somber skate instead of her usually upbeat and fast-paced selections, she despises the sobbing mess it reduces her to every damn time.

That's another thing Emily loves about her — every program is entirely _Lena's_ , regardless of the direction Angela wants to go with it. Angela wanted a somber song, so Lena chooses one that still fits her, although in a different facet than the audience has maybe ever seen her. Even with her perfectly painted heteronormative mask of ultra-femininity, Lena still manages to be herself.

Lena finishes, positioned into the most elegant contortion, chest heaving with a smile that stretches across her entire face. Emily loves that smile on her.

As she watches Lena steps into the kiss and cry to wait for scoring, she can't help but smile. Lena always wears a pin that they had gotten together on their first date, long ago. They had gone to see a musical, _Les Misérables_. Emily had always played during all the showings in London when it was back on the performance circuit, so she had never had a chance to see it live. Lena had taken her out to Liverpool to see the production there, and had dealt with her babbling in tears the entire time about how beautiful it was.

They had kissed tenderly in the corner of a pub afterwards, amid the stink of spilled beer, fish and chips and roaring cheers of football fans who paid them no mind. Emily's pretty sure that was the moment she fell in love.

She cheers and cries with Lena when she scores a remarkable 78.24, a solid 2 points above her score at Skate America a week before. At the very least, it's likely she'll at least stay in fifth place, still scoring above Olivia Colomar.

Top five is a big deal. Top ten has been standard, but top five means they'll shell out the cost to let Lena go to the Olympics. It means Emily'll get to go, too. It means Lena can finally retire, they can stop all the constant travel. They can get married, settle down, and move out of London.  Lena can get the surgery on her ankle she needs for the pain, and they can just _relax_.

Lena will place fourth, they know, by the time Amélie Lacroix steps on the ice.

Emily will admit that she hasn't ever really stayed to watch Amélie in the past. By the time Lena performs, she's excited enough calling her and telling her how beautiful she was that she doesn't usually catch the rest. This is also the first season that Lena's placed in the top five, too, so there's more time between Lena's performance and actually getting to the dressing room to her phone for Emily to watch.

As Amélie steps on the ice, Emily can immediately see why she's drawn Lena's attention. Amélie is tall and languid, a force of pristine perfection that absolutely knows it. Every moment is calculated, precise, every jump and spin is so textbook that it is absolutely remarkable.

But she has no life, Emily notices. Whereas when Lena skates, with bright eyes and her entire body thrown into the motion, Amélie's performance is severely lacking. When the camera zooms in to show her face, her eyes are shockingly dull, mind a million miles away from wherever she is in that moment. Her skills are remarkable, yes, with perfect edges and exact turns, but...

What is art without the life? 

What is life without passion?

Amidst her call to Lena, who is absolutely cross with her for being up so late but delighted at the same time, she looks up Amélie.

The first thing that fills Google's search results aside from a basic Wikipedia entry and a results page for the Grand Prix circuit, is a news article.

> _The figure skating community has truly suffered a tragedy._
> 
> _After the French invitational, known as the Internationaux de France by fans, world class skaters Gerard and Amelie Lacroix were involved in a fatal head-on collision in Paris, France. Amélie is currently hospitalized with fractured ribs, but is now out of critical care and recovering. Gérard Lacroix was declared deceased on the scene. No other bystanders were harmed._
> 
> _"It really is an unfortunate accident," local law enforcement stated in a press release. "The incident occurred due to faulty AI in our stoplight detection algorithm that had never occurred before. Both cars were given a green light, and due to low visibility because of the time it occurred and the weather, were not able to see each other."_
> 
> _The collision has been deemed an accident with no party at fault, and a settlement is in negotiations to be given to the Lacroix family for this tragic accident._
> 
> _Many of their peers and fans flocked to social media to share their support and grievances for the Lacroix family._
> 
> _"Gérard had his whole life ahead of him," Ana Amari wrote on Twitter, coach of Fareeha Amari (EGP). "It is so tragic to see a talent like that be taken so suddenly. My thoughts are with Amélie and his family."_
> 
> _"Saw you just yesterday, brother," Jesse McCree (USA), a fellow competitor in pairs skating, wrote on Instagram following the news, with a picture of the pair, accompanied with their skating partners, Amélie and Elizabeth Caledonia Ashe (USA). "The world may have lost a star, but I lost a friend."_
> 
> _Across all social media profiles, Amélie has posted a single picture of her and Gérard from their wedding ceremony, with the comment: "I have lost my best friend, my partner on and off the ice, and the love of my life. Please understand as I take this time to grieve and heal following this loss. Thank you to all of those who have supported us. I do not know what is next for me."_
> 
> _Amélie (née Guillard) and Gérard Lacroix started in pairs skating at a young age, floating between partners until they were paired together by their coach at the age of 13. They have skated together for over ten years now, and were married in 2068. The couple owns a flat together in Paris, where their home practice rink is._
> 
> _Their skating has been deemed by judges and critics alike as "a remarkable example of the art of skating" citing their connection as a couple and a team to contribute to their phenomenal artistry. The pair has never placed off podium, even as juniors, and rose to international fame after being invited to complete on the 2070 Grand Prix circuit._
> 
> _They were slated to participate in the 2072 Olympics in Oasis, Iraq._
> 
> _Amélie and the Lacroix family have declined for comment, as well as Jack Morrison, the pairs' senior coach._
> 
> _Details regarding memorial services for fans will be provided as they are released._

There is a video attached, of the free skate performance from that night. They skate to [a jaunty French tune](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qRrZ1CIAaaY), one Emily can't quite keep up the translations with unless she is focusing on it. Gérard is handsome, tall and strongly built, with a charming smile. He tosses her over his head with ease, and she watches as Amélie gazes into his eyes with nothing by pure love, adoration and _life_.

Emily understands the distant look in the woman's eyes, now, and she can't say she blames her.

Something about Lena always has been a magnet for broken women, after all.

* * *

 

MONTREAL, CANADA  
23 OCT 2074  
3:26 PM LOCAL 

It feels like a dream to be skating on the same ice as Amélie.

It's not that she has a celebrity crush or anything — definitely just a normal crush, thank you very much — but she respects Amélie so much. It takes incredible talent to never place off-podium in your entire career, nonetheless to do it in pairs _and_ singles, something completely unheard of before Amélie. To top it all off, the woman also has an incredibly successful ballet career and is grieving the death of her husband.

Lena knows that if it had been her, there's no way she'd be anything more than a husk of a person, if she lived through it at all.

That respect means something to her. When she looks at Amélie, a woman who is broken in more ways than one, who has conquered it all and is still standing, she sees nothing but strength and beauty.

They share shy, polite smiles as they pass each other on the ice, careful not to give anything else away. She speeds through the ice, reveling in the fresh layer of ice and how smoothly it gives way to her blades. Adrenaline pounds through her veins, heartbeat thrumming distantly in her chest. She revels in the stares of spectators, in the eyes on her, in the thrill of performance. 

Aside from Amélie and herself, there are three other women on the ice. 

Satya Vaswani, India. Elegant, graceful, and absolutely calculated with all of her programs. Whatever mathematics, science and physics that's behind skating, Satya knows all about it. She's not particularly social, though Lena can't tell if that's through preference or due to her coach, Sanjay, who is always breathing down her neck. She's polite, otherwise.

Mei-Ling Zhou, China. Shy, and passionate, though a bit of a wild card. She has incredible jumps and amazing strength, but the chances of her landing them are, at best, fifty-fifty. She had bumped up to the top five along with Lena when some of the older women retired. 

Lastly, Olivia Colomar. Olivia skates vibrant, fast-paced shows that are always a crowd favorite, but she never has the technical skill to place podium. No, Olivia prefers to move up the ladder with sabotage. Normally, that would be taken care of incredibly quickly, seeing as how seriously the ISF takes sabotage cases, but no one can ever prove it. They all know it's what's going on, but hidden behind clever anonymity and the pull her coach has on the ISF board, no one dares to touch her.

Lena is about to go into her triple lutz when she spies Amélie across the rink. She steps through her footwork sequence, floating backwards and sailing into her twizzles. She's so focused on practicing, on her own program that she doesn't notice Olivia stretching at the baseboards.

But Olivia notices.

Lena watches as a sly smirk spreads across her face as she nonchalantly stretches into a Bielmann, watching Amélie skate towards her out of the corner of her eye.

Lena's not quite sure how she reacts so quickly, but she digs her toe-picks in the ice and skates faster than she ever has before. She calls the other woman's name, giving her just enough of a warning before she pushes Amélie against the baseboards, caging her in between her arms. They breathe heavily there for a moment, Olivia only a few meters away, staring at them with burning amusement. 

They are dangerously close, Lena realizes with a start. She practically has a leg slotted between Amélie's thick thighs, the crystals on their dresses bouncing light off one another and reflecting in their eyes. She's never been this close to Amélie before, never felt the heat of her skin, never seen the golden flecks of her eyes shimmering as Amélie looks right into hers.

There's a murmur throughout the crowd, both of their coaches racing towards them with different looks of concern. But all Lena can hear is her own heartbeat thrumming as loud as gunshots in her ears, looking up at the woman she has pressed to the baseboards.

They're close enough that she can smell the mint of Amélie's toothpaste as her cool breath fans across her face. It's not the time or the place, but all she wants to do is kiss her and —

"What are you doing?" Amélie whispers to her.

"Olivia was planning something," Lena babbles in hushed tones. Her mouth is terribly dry, and she's still breathless. "I didn't know how to get your attention fast enough. She was gonna make it look like you were gonna run into her—and her skate and—"

It's settled quickly enough. There is no trouble between them, so the two of them explain in hushed tones to their coaches that they'll discuss it later, all while giving an obvious side eye to Olivia who is parading around the ice now. It will come up in interviews, and they're not sure what they'll say to cover it up, but it will be something.

The rest of the competition goes without a hitch. Lena places fourth, with a new personal best. She's not quite on the podium yet, but she beat Olivia's score —  _again —_ and that's enough for her right now.

In the time between finals and exhibition, her mind wanders to Amelie again.

She will not deny that she is a daydreamer, and all too often finds herself caught up in a fantasy. She had imagined her and Emily's first kiss dozens of times before it happened, had spent weeks pining for her and sending disgustingly poetic texts back and forth. It had only been a few short months before they moved into their flat together, and that was six years ago.

Lena moves fast when it comes to romance, and she knows this. She knows what she wants when she sees it, and she doesn't play mind games. She's upfront, direct, and honest with herself and with others around her. She would even dare to call that a strength of hers.

But she knows this situation must be handled with delicately—that _Amélie_ must be handled delicately. She doesn't want to scare Amélie away, and if they can only be friends, then so be it. Lena would love the opportunity.

But that doesn't make the situation easy. Far from it, honestly.

They can barely be _friends_ without being under the suspicion of some form of cheating by the ISF. Lena can barely imagine what it's like for couples who must go through the secrecy, if not for knowing about Angela and Fareeha.

They had been methodical in how they handled it all. They didn't talk about their shows, didn't talk about skating at _all_ , despite it being their biggest common interest. Angela watched only her typical competition runs, and they didn't talk about ranks or scores at all. There was expressly no contact between Fareeha and Lena, other than the occasional, knowing smile as they passed in the halls.

It's easier now that Fareeha's retired. They are careful to reveal their relationship, still, comfortable with being together in public though still deftly avoiding the topic in interviews and on social media. Lena has watched their careful longing for years now, and despite how awful the idea of "so close, and yet so far" becoming quite so literal is, she can't deny it's romantic.

Fareeha is here, now, to congratulate her as she readies for her exhibition show. She's taking Angela to meet her father, who lives a few hours north, and stay there for a brief holiday together. Their first, since Fareeha's retirement. The nerves get to her a little less during exhibition, knowing that this is purely a place for her to perform without worrying about scores and GOEs, and appropriately, her ankle throbs beneath her boot.

It is strange, performing for thousands of people who know her name but she doesn't care about a single one of them. She knows Emily is watching at home, but it's not the same. She knows Angela is watching, though she is likely far too pre-occupied with her girlfriend.

As she flows out of her starting pose, her performance smiling spread across her face, she spies a familiar sight. Hidden in the shadows of the high-rising seats, arms tucked into her jacket, Amélie stands and watches. She flashes Lena a warm smile and mouths "good luck."

Lena would be a liar if she said she didn't skate just a little better after that.

* * *

MONTREAL, CANADA  
24 OCT 2074  
9:15 AM LOCAL 

Amélie hates being in hotels.

There are several reasons for this. Of course, it is unfamiliar and impersonal territory, the same patterned duvets and processed air pumped through every room all the same. She despises the musty smell of humid showers and sheets that have been laundered over and over, the stench of other people lingering to them despite it all.

But what she hates the most is all the mirrors. 

Hotels seem obsessed with plastering them all over the walls. Full length mirrors across entire walls, draping exorbitantly throughout the building, be it in individual rooms or through the hallways and lobbies.

Amélie stares at herself in the one above the bathroom sink. She despises looking at her reflection, but it is one of few ways she can remind herself she is alive, even if only just barely.

She is dripping wet from her shower, skin tinted with the slightest hint of red from the steaming water. There is barely enough fat and muscle on her to keep her from looking sallow, thankfully forced into a healthy diet by her sports nutritionist and doctors orders. She knows she would likely have wasted away if it weren't for that. But her eyes are sunken in, deep circles smudged underneath dull brown irises. She's pale, which she always has been, but her skin isn't full of life like it once used to be.

 _She_ isn't full of life like she once used to be.

Her scar peeks out just under her right breast, an amalgam of rough, mottled skin from the debris that punctured her in the accident and the precise stitches from the hospital afterwards. That's the part she hates the most. She can pretend like Gérard is still alive, she can pretend her flashbacks are just nightmares, but she cannot deny the reality and finality of a physical scar.

She towels off and gets dressed.

Free skate finished last night, and she had placed first, as expected. But her scores were not at high as they usually are, second place far too close, and Moira is not happy with her. They already have an intense practice schedule planned out when she returns to France.

Amélie doesn't mind very much. It's somewhat easier to ignore all the feelings when her schedule is packed with practice, coaching, more practice, ballet rehearsal, physical training, ice time, and repeat for the next four months. When there is the brief lull between the end of the skating season and the beginning of the pre-season practice, when Moira typically takes a holiday for a month — along with most of her competitors — Amélie throws herself into dancing. Commits herself to catching up with her responsibilities as the prima ballerina for the _Opera nationale de Paris_.

Today, she has nothing.

There's an intense storm moving across Europe that has grounded practically all flights until it passes through, and she's stuck in Montreal for another 24 hours at least. She supposes she's lucky to have priority pick for flights, but...

Ugh.

The local ice rinks have already filled up with other European skaters refusing to waste the day without practice. Besides, she doesn't want to be anywhere near another skater and a blade for a while.

Amélie lets out a heavy sigh, absentmindedly brushing through her hair and staring at the floor. A knock breaks her out of her reverie, though she's not entirely sure who it could be. Moira had been able to fly in last night after the free skate, right before the storm moved in to affect flights into France.

It's Lena waiting for her at the door, with a bright grin and sparkling eyes.

"Good morning," Amélie greets, a small smile gracing her lips. "Your flight was delayed as well, I assume?"

Lena laughs and nods. "Yup, so I figured I'd finally come and cash that raincheck for a cuppa with ya."

Amélie knows Lena has a crush on her. It's not hard to tell, first of all, even if the woman wasn't blatantly transparent; and it's flattering, she must admit. She can even say she feels something for woman, too, even if it's only some kind of budding attraction right now. That's more than she can say for...well, anyone new in her life in the past two years.

She can't shake the deep, guttural feeling that this is a betrayal of her marriage, having feelings for another. She can't help but see Gerard's face flash in her mind at the thought of touching another, his last gasping words to her, face covered in blood —

"Okay," she says, after a moment. "Let me get my coat."

But she could start with friendship. She can do that.

It's a touch colder in Montréal than it is in Paris this time of year. Her and Lena huddle their noses in scarves and tuck their hands deep into their heavy coats. They're lucky to be downtown and in walking distance of just about anything they need. They idly chat as they walk, the brisk chill in the air brushing their cheeks with a rosy tint. They finally decide on a coffee and tea shop that is all but empty, ambient music fluttering through the otherwise quiet shop.

 "Amélie?" Lena murmurs. "I can't read any of this shit."

Aéelie quirks an eyebrow in amusement, before looking up at the handwritten chalk menu board. It is written entirely in Quebeçois French, which is not surprising for Montréal.

"You grew up in Europe," Amélie remarks, surprised. "Surely you learned a few other languages."

Lena gives her a sheepish smile. "Some basics, yeah. But languages were never my strong suit, and I haven't used them in years. I think I know how to ask for the loo, _maybe_."

"I shall order for you," she replies with a smirk. "What do you like usually?"

"Uh, just black tea'll do. Extra sugar."

" _Un café mocha pour moi, s'il vous plait, et un the l'Angleterre. Plus fort, et avec plus de sucre, s'il vous plait_."

They sit down at a table in the corner, next to the window where they can watch snow beginning to flutter down. It doesn't appear to stick, and half of it looks more like slurry than anything, but it's calming nonetheless.

"I despise Quebeçois accents," Amélie mutters after the waiter drops off their order. "Just...practically unintelligible."

"It's funny to see you all riled up," Lena laughs, before sipping her tea. She hums in contentment, smile unfurling on her lips. "At least they make the tea right here."

Talking with Lena is calming, between the ambient music, the sounds of employees scuffling behind the bar, and the two of them curled up at the window watching as rain begins to gently drizzle on the busy streets.

"I noticed you didn't do exhibition last night. Or in Seattle, either."

"No, I haven't since..." The silence is palpable as she trails off.  "It hasn't felt right."

Lena nods silently, sipping at her tea, before giving her a shy smile. "Well, regardless, thank you for coming to watch me last night. It was nice, having someone there."

"You look beautiful when you have someone to skate for, _chérie_ ," she says, knowing all too well how gentle her tone is. 

She looks into Lena's eyes and she can't deny that the moment they share is tender. There is something significant about it that she can't place, a feeling that she can't find in French, let alone in English. For a moment, she has the urge to reach out and grasp her hand in hers, to feel the warm heartbeat of another thrum underneath their skin.

But the moment passes, as does the urge. She finds herself again, doubt festering deep in her stomach and reminding her of all the reasons why it can't work. Why _she_ can't work, why nothing is ever easy for her, why she will never be the same again and —

"There's a few weeks between the French cup and the China cup," Lena comments, oblivious to the internal monologue Amélie's brain has spiraled into. "My girlfriend and I are planning on staying in Paris for a few extra days after the competition for a small holiday. Would you...be willing to get dinner with us sometime? Show us around the city?"

The revelation that Lena has a girlfriend is both relieving and somehow intensely disappointing at the same time.

She can't pretend as though she doesn't see the way Lena's eyes light up as she proposes the question. She's not sure what to do about this – about her _feelings_. It all seems drastically foreign to her, to be stuck in this freefall of uncertainty.

Everything about being with Gérard was easy. They had been paired together by their coach, and from a mutual passion of skating formed a beautiful partnership. They were together constantly, all the time, and their love had bloomed with that kind of easy familiarity. They were together for so long, grew up together—she knew Gerard like that back of her hand, and vice versa. Getting married was practically a formality at that point, after having been together for almost ten years at that point.

This is...different. 

Lena is new and vibrant and positively unpredictable. Lena is full of energy, of passion, and sometimes just being around her is enough to ignite it within Amelie, too. She's the only person who has made Amélie feel _anything_ other than the tantalizing numbness of monotony or despair.

She worries she'll become dependent. She worries she already is, chasing the high of a feeling that doesn't hurt, riding the danger of a relationship with a woman already taken. The danger of a relationship _at all_ — the idea she could love again, that she could _be_ loved again, by anyone but Gérard.

"Of course," she replies, hiding the smile she can't seem to force out by sipping at her coffee. "I'd love to."

She doesn't know if this will end well, but she can't seem to stop herself.


	6. too tempting not to touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lena and Emily visit Paris, and Amélie can't help herself, it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um, I'm so sorry for the huge delay. I started a new job that totally changed my hours and I haven't had much time, energy or creativity to write. This took a lot out of me to pull out especially after a hiatus.Thank you for being patient! 
> 
> Also, reminder, all polyamorous relationships are different. Having a *~perfect soulmates triad~* is not realistic for every polyam relationship.

 

PARIS, FRANCE  
4 NOVEMBER, 2074  
7:24 PM LOCAL

Paris is breathtaking.

Emily has been here before, with Lena or with the orchestra once or twice, but it is just as mesmerizing as it was the first time. There is something about the romanticism of it all, of the way the lights twinkle and the smell of freshly baked bread that seems to waft through the streets. It feels like a fairy tale, of all the ways she has watched the streets of Paris be remade in film before her, only to be stripped and laid bare before her in reality.

And it is still enchanting.

The café around them is bustling with quiet conversation, dimly lit with candle chandeliers as if they are living in the golden age of French Renaissance. They wait at a cloth covered table with waiters who are dressed far too stiffly for her liking. Emily feels out of place here, at this fancy restaurant wearing clothes that are much too casual for the occasion.

Lena sits next to her, wringing her hands underneath the table. She doesn't say it, but Emily can feel how nervous she is. She takes Lena's hand, gently, ignoring the clamminess and squeezes.

"You'll be fine, love," she says, in the way she always does.

"I want you two to like each other," Lena mumbles, not meeting her eyes. That's how Emily can tell she's _really_ nervous. "I want you to...approve? That seems silly to say, but it's true."

Emily know when Amélie walks into the room if only because of the way that Lena shoots straight up, eyes alight with eagerness.

Amélie is _divine_.

There are no other words Emily can conjure in that moment. Seeing the woman at her best, at her peak performance even live is _nothing_ compared to the sight that is lain before her. She is tall and lean, fit with all the curves teeming with solid muscle like all skaters are. She's dressed as casually as the two of them are but somehow seems leagues above them, in an elegant creamy cashmere sweater and dark slacks. 

It's her eyes that really draw Emily in. They practically glow golden underneath the low light, flecks of deep amber shimmering as she assesses Emily.

Emily feels alight under her gaze as she draws closer, and understands immediately Lena's...obsession, for the lack of a better descriptor. Even without exchanging a word, without having shared more than a moment's worth of glances, there is an unmistakable pull, a draw that Emily cannot describe but can feel throughout her entire body.

"Hi," she breathes, as Amélie finally draws near. She stands up to greet her and still has to look up at the woman, she finds.

"Hello," Amélie greets. Her voice is soft as velvet, low and dripping with  a gentle timbre. "Emily, I presume."

There is a coy smile shared between the two of them and Emily can't help herself. She leans forward, her eyes glimmering, and she knows she'll get shit from Lena for instantly falling into her flirtatious habits.

"Yes, nice to finally meet you, Amélie."

They share a chuckle at that.

Leave it to Lena to choose two women with the same damn name.

As they talk, Emily finds herself analyzing the woman before her. She can't help it, as a performer and also as an extrovert she has always had a knack for being able to open up everyone around her and read them like a book, cover to cover.

But Amélie is difficult and stubborn. Her spine does not want to bend for Emily, as if it has been glued shut, or as if she has locked it closed.  She doesn't pry—it never works, anyway.

So she sits and listens. Makes comments, tosses in a joke here and there, but mostly listens.

"Y'know, we had a girlfriend once who despised Lena's footie team. Great sex, don't get me wrong, but listening to the two of them bicker over beer and bangers every night was—"

There is a tinkling of laughter and Emily relishes in the flush on Lena's face. But what she notices most is the inquisitive way Amélie's face changes, as if she is swishing the words around her palate, tasting the full profile of them in her mind. Her golden eyes shift almost imperceptibly, pupils dilating just a touch underneath the shadow of her long lashes.

"Girlfriend?" Amélie asks, almost innocuously. However, she is anything but, delicate chin resting on a bridge made of slender fingers. Dark, perfectly manicured nails draw attention from her pale skin, the rich wine-stained mauve of polish matching her lipstick shade perfectly. She is on the hunt, posturing in a way the two of them are all too familiar with.

 _This woman is stupid sexy_.

"We're polyamorous," Lena all but blurts out, clearly chomping at the bit to get this bit of info out. Her embarrassed, if not overzealous excitement is one of the qualities Emily finds all too endearing about her. "We know there's a piece missing. Been looking for it for a long time. You, uh...know anythin' about that kinda thing?"

_Smooth, love._

Then Amélie smiles, a slow, gentle curve of her lips as ambient piano plays in the back, and it is as if the world stops for her. There is something about this woman that is absolutely magnetic, that pulls in the entire world with her for a moment as she passes, and Amélie doesn't even know it.

Or maybe she does, and that makes it all the more delightful.

"Yes, Gérard and I enjoyed company time to time," she says casually, though her demure smile reads as anything but. "I wouldn't say we felt like we were _missing_ something, but... We reveled in the excitement of others' touches, of never having to worry about making sure the others' needs were fulfilled. It made going home to one another that much more satisfying."

Emily knows the feeling.

She has a few lovers to turn to when the distance is too great, when she just needs something warm to wake up next to and a relief that isn't just her vibrator. Her favorite of all of these women is Brigitte, who is better described as a "friend with benefits," and the occasional threesome after a night of drinking at the pub is not entirely unheard of between them.

Brigitte is a beautiful woman, a smart woman and...well, she is not lacking in _any_ areas of performance, but it's not real in the way she craves. She yearns and yearns like she's in a goddamn sapphic Jane Austen novel. She wants the typical fairy-tale lesbian romance, full of passion and the softest romanticism imaginable, to be swept off her feet and sweep her lovers off theirs in return.

By this time, their dinner is done and they are all three glasses of wine in, heads swimming pleasantly and tongues just loosened enough to be coy without the lingering threat of anxiety. So when Amélie asks if they would like to continue to drink at her flat, she squeezes Lena's hand under the table.

"We'd love to."

* * *

 

Amélie is not sure what the hell compelled her to ask them to come over.

But here they sit, wine glasses in their hands on her couch. Emily is pacing around the apartment, looking at all the plants that cover the place, light gleaming off the waxy surfaces of their leaves 

"I love all the plants," she remarks. "Do you like to garden?"

"Gérard did," Amélie replies. "I...find myself keeping them alive for some reason."

They don't comment on it after that, though Emily continues to admire them as she sips on her wine. The sound of her heels click throughout the hardwood and it is...a pleasing sound to hear other people in her apartment, she must admit. She hasn't had many people in here since Gérard's funeral—her mother had stayed for two weeks afterward to make sure she wasn't going to kill herself, and that had been it since.

They used to host all kinds of parties. Used to have Jack over, would have watch parties with their families. The same plates they got for their wedding are still in the cabinets—the wine glasses they drink from are the same they bought when they moved in together years ago.

"Where's your bathroom?"

"Down the hall, to the left."

Then it is just her and Lena, and the same tension that has been floating between them rises once more. It is charged and entirely too awkward for someone who regards herself as fairly suave, and some part of her knows it must come to a head tonight.

"Weird question," Lena starts, gently placing her drained glass on the coffee table, "but...can I see your medals?"

Amélie laughs at the spontaneity of the question, and her head is swimming just enough for her to agree. Lena somehow always asks questions she is never expecting, and it is a refreshing change. She waves Lena on with her, resisting the fleeting urge to hold her hand.

Her bedroom is quaint. Gérard's things still litter the room, as if he still lives there—his side of the bed is perpetually made, his watch laying on his night stand next to his favorite book. Sometimes she'll spray his pillow with his cologne just to pretend like he's lying there with her, or she'll wash with his favorite shampoo brand.

The medals hang in a shadow box above their bed. She gently pulls the frame off the wall and gestures for Lena to sit down next to her on the bed. She toes off her heels as she pulls the medals out, placing them in Lena's hands.

"They're beautiful," she whispers, thumbs tracing the different patterns engraved into the face of them. "I've never held a Grand Prix medal before."

Lena's eyes sparkle as she turns over the heavy medallions in her hands. She looks absolutely starstruck, and Amélie can sense some part of her swelling at the innocent hope that Lena has.

"Has it been hard for you? Living in your old flat with Gérard, skating without him?"

Amélie blinks, startled by the question. Everyone has always danced around the issue, has always refused to outright say his name or ask the hard question. Everyone else has always been afraid of tearing her delicate little heart out more than it already has been.

But she should have expected better from Lena. Lena has always had more sense than that, and more faith in Amélie than she has ever had herself.

"Excruciating, at times," she whispers.

"Has there been anyone, since Gérard? Since, y'know, you said that you were polyam when you were together?"

She pauses,  heart tight in her chest. Lena places one hand  on her lower thigh, a safe, neutral zone but producing a clear intent. A crystal clear invitation, an open question.

"I don't know if I can be emotionally available," she admits, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth to gnaw at it with her teeth. "I...I don't know if I'm ready for that. Still. After all this time. It's pathetic, I know."

"No! Not at all!" Lena stutters, awkwardly patting the hand that is in her lap while trying to give her space to move away. "I get it, I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable—"

"Let me finish."

Lena shuts her mouth, wide doe eyes staring nervously at her from across the small space. Amélie takes the medals from her hand and places them back in their box, before turning back and tracing soft, slender fingers and rubbing her thumb at the soft flesh of Lena's palm.

"I don't think I'm ready emotionally," she repeats, eyes slowly raising up to meet Lena's. "But...it's been a while since anyone's touched me."

There is a moment of silence, which is overwhelmingly earth shattering in Amélie's ears, before the implication dawns on Lena.

"Oh. Oh! So you're saying—you think that—um, you want—"

"Lena."

The way her eyes look up at Amélie's at the stern voice, filled with the same tentative _want_ that's she's been hiding away all this time is enough to make up her mind, if she hadn't already. Gentle fingers card through Lena's feathered bangs, barely skimming against the soft skin of Lena's cheeks.

"Amélie," Lena breathes, voice shaky.

 Their eyes lock even in the dark bedroom of her Paris apartment, and Amélie can feel her blood smoldering beneath her skin as it pumps through her quicker and quicker.

She reaches out to touch Lena, now. Her skin is soft beneath Amélie's own gentle hands, and the way that she can feel Lena's breath hitch threatens to send a shiver throughout her entire body. It has been so long since she has felt another person under her touch, another heart beating in time with hers, and she can't help the way she craves it.

Lena's hands reach out to her, too. Gingerly, hesitantly, as if she is afraid that if she moves too quickly, she'll spook Amélie and this will be all over.

Amélie can't blame her, either. She knows she'll cry about all of this later, because despite everything—that she's "waited long enough," that she's not doing anything she wouldn't have done when he was alive—she knows she will feel guilty. She will hate herself for giving in so easily just for the touch of another, for jeopardizing everything she's worked for just to feel wanted again.

But that's later, and right now she has something she so desperately needs right in front of her. Even if all she gets is a moment of relief amidst the drowning, she will gladly gulp her breath of fresh air while she has the chance.

She can feel Lena's fingers tremble as they trail up her shoulder to graze at her neck, electric sparks shooting through her where skin meets skin. She can't take it anymore, dipping her head to kiss Lena and break the tension that hangs thickly in between them.

Lena's lips are soft, and they are both eager despite the chasteness of the kiss. Lena lets out a barely audible sigh of contentment, hands resting more confidently against Amélie now. Every nerve buzzes along her skin as they kiss, lips thick and slow as they move together, her fingers twining into the feathered ends of hair that sit at the nape of Lena's neck.

"I've been wanting to do that for a bit now," Lena whispers breathlessly when they finally take a moment to breathe, foreheads pressed together, hands now delicately curled against skin. There is tension writhing in their bodies underneath the surface, and the devouring hunger that has gone ignored for so long finally awoken in Amélie. She feels it creep through every limb, and churn her stomach into pleasantly dizzying flutters.

"I know," Amélie replies, voice far more heady than she means it to be.  "You're not very subtle, Lena."

"That makes two of you," Emily's voice rings out behind her, soft voice startling in the buzzing silence from her blood thrumming through her ears.

"So it does," Amélie replies, turning only her head a few degrees to get a glimpse of the woman out of the corner of her eye. She's worried for a moment that Emily is upset, that this is all coming out of nowhere and boundaries should have been discussed before she kissed Lena.

But Emily looks nothing of the sort—if anything, Emily is pleasantly amused, sauntering over to them from the doorway. Emily's weight sinks into the bed behind her, tentative hands brushing Amélie's hair away from her neck and her breath fans across her already sensitive skin.

"Is it okay if I join in, too?" Emily murmurs, hands still hovering so as not to directly touch her. The intent is there, the question open and waiting for her to answer. "If not, that's okay. I can go back to the hotel."

Amélie leans into the other woman's touch, turning her head to kiss her, too. This one is less gentle than the one she had shared with Lena, the taste of her desperation lingering on her lips so thick she is sure that Emily can taste it.

"Stay, please," Amélie whispers. "Both of you."

There is a surge of movement as everything starts all at once. No longer hesitant, Lena is at her lips, kissing with the full intensity of her evident longing now, and it makes Amélie's heart flutter delightfully. Emily's hands snake around her to caress the curves of her waist, trailing kisses from her exposed shoulder to the tender flesh of her neck. It makes her gasp into Lena's mouth, who only takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss further.

It is all overwhelming, remarkable, and absolutely intoxicating.

She hasn't been touched in years, has barely had the energy or drive to touch _herself_ even. The sudden surge of chemicals and rush of blood to places that have been...more or less ignored feels absolutely divine. She finds herself practically whimpering underneath their hands, though they do nothing even on the faintest side of scandalous.

"Please," she gasps, taking deep gulps of air with lidded eyes and soft, kiss-swollen lips. "I—I need—"

"Tell us, darling," Emily murmurs in her ear, and she can see the way Lena's eyes narrow as she hangs on Emily's honeyed words. Amélie can't deny that they have an effect on her as well, stirring her arousal deeper and deeper. "What is it you need?"

Amélie bites her lip. She isn't usually this shy, but God, it's been so long and this is...weird, right? Being sandwiched between a fellow competitor and her girlfriend as they kiss at every inch of her they can reach and make her skin buzz pleasantly can be appropriately classified as weird, surely.

But it's intoxicating, and she wants more.

"Touch me," she sighs, craning her head to pull Emily into a kiss.

Lena's hands roam over her body, carefully running her hands over the soft cashmere of her sweater that now threatened to suffocate her. Lena's cool fingers skim at the flesh of her waist as they dip beneath it, and the thrill of the woman's touch electrifies Amélie even more. Emily breaks the kiss between the two of them, and Emily holds her chin carefully, smug smile stretched out across her face.

"Has it been a while?"

Emily's voice is low and sultry, sweet words dripping like honeyed cream off the tip of her tongue as she doles them out. Amélie nods at her, dazes, back arching as the other woman's hands trail under her sweater. All four hands on her, their focus on her, on making _her_ feel good—she can't say it's not an experience she's never had, but she's forgotten how drunk it could make her. It's overwhelming in all the best ways, all of her senses consumed by the two of them.

"We'll take care of you," Emily says, nails gripping just a touch harder at her skin.

"Would it be alright if we all undressed a little, love?" Lena asks, practically kneeling between her legs at the foot of the bed now. Her dainty hands spread across the tops of her thighs, the tiniest sliver of nails scratching delightfully through her slacks.

"Please," Amélie whispers back, carding her own perfectly manicured nails through Lena's hair.

She had forgotten what it was like to be with women, her most vibrant memories being of the way Gérard felt--the leanness of toned muscles rippling beneath the skin,  the roughness of his scruff against her thighs, his thickness inside her.

But Emily and Lena are so delectably soft, full of curves and plushness. She missed the way delicate hands feel climbing up her thighs and carefully unbuttoning her slacks. Emily's hands snake around her to palm at her breasts, and Lena's hot breath fanning over the bare skin of her belly makes her let out a high-pitched keen. She can feel her wetness seeping through to tickle at her thighs now, the distinct lack of friction uncomfortable when that's all she craves at the moment.

It feels so strange to be exposed in front of another in this sense again. She is used to locker rooms, to changing in front of other competitors, at the gym, in front of Moira mid-competition. She has let herself become extra sensitive, every touch of skin to skin sending a trail of fire throughout her body.

A flush crosses her cheeks as Lena kisses down the insides of her creamy thighs, thighs shivering  in Lena's firm grip. Lena looks up at Amélie as she presses a hot, open mouth kiss to the wet spot of her lace underwear. The heat that envelops her is immediate and she can't help the loud moan that leaves her lips,  practically whimpering in relief.

" _Lena_ ," she sighs out, leaning into Emily's freshly bare chest—when did she do that?—and spreading her thighs open even wider.

"Oh, I do love that about you athletic girls," Emily grins, hooking her hands beneath Amélie's knees and jerking them towards her. Amélie lets out a small yelp in surprise, though Lena pays no mind, gazing dreamily at her from under soft lashes, teasing her through her underwear with tongue and teeth and fingers. "You're so _flexible_."

Emily fluidly takes over the role of teasing her, delicate hands _finally_ slipping underneath her underwear, the delightful pressure against her clit making her cry out.

"And so _wet_ ," Emily purrs in her ear, the movement of her fingers so delectably smooth, a betrayal of how erotic it all is, of how _good_ it all feels to be touched again.

Lena strips in front of them, and though she is one of the most beautiful performers Amélie has ever seen, there is no show to be had here. She strips quickly and efficiently, practically ripping off her clothes.

Though their performance dresses are practically skin tight, it is something else entirely to see Lena's lithe body in all its glory. She is quite a bit shorter than Amélie herself, but  just as packed with the same lean muscle that ripples beneath the surface, all sinew and strength.

Then to see all of _that_ get down on her knees, breath ghosting over her thighs as she slowly, tenderly, and absurdly fucking seductively slides her panties off?

It has her shivering and gasping for breath before Lena's even touched her, and the other two women certainly take notice. She feels herself melt as Lena looks up at her, grinning with the utmost satisfaction as she runs a slender finger down the part of her lips.

"Awful wet there, aren't ya, love?" Amélie gives a pathetic whine in response, shifting her hips in an effort to try to get more friction. Lena only laughs. "As you wish."

The feeling of Lena's mouth is divine, and Amélie cannot help the embarrassingly loud moan she lets out. She had practically forgotten what this could feel like, nerves alight in Lena's deliciously warm mouth, fingers and lips and tongue spreading her apart and lapping up her sweet wetness.

She comes far too quickly for her own liking, her entire body shuddering as she lets out a soft cry. She grabs at Emily anywhere she can touch, hard thighs quivering around Lena's head. She cries out both of their names over and over, along with a string of French that she is thankful neither of them can understand.

At least Lena and Emily are certainly amused.

"So good for us, darling," Emily murmurs in her ear, gently coaxing her down. "You did so good."

The buzz that soaks into her skin feels absolutely divine. She can still feel her heartbeat throbbing through her clit, and she sinks even further into Emily's arms, shivering with the soft kisses Lena places on the insides of her damp thighs. Lena crawls up onto her lap and gently strokes her face, giving Emily a long, deep kiss over her shoulder.

"She tastes good, doesn't she?" Lena grins, popping her thumb into Amélie's mouth. Instinctively, Amélie sucks on it, the headiness of her own wetness filling her mouth.

As Amélie lay between them, asking in the afterglow of a particularly well-earned orgasm, there is nothing but the buzz in her ears and the soft sounds of them kissing  above her. She takes this moment to finally allow herself the pleasure of exploring the woman in front of her.

It seems to strange, that it was meeting Lena that had allowed her this opportunity in the first place but she had barely touched her this entire time. Lena is full of tight muscles underneath a layer of delectable softness, the skin of her thighs smooth under Amélie's palms. She relishes digging her blunt nails into the flesh of Lena's ass,  and especially enjoys the gasping moan Lena makes into Emily's mouth.

She takes it even further, suckling on a dusky rose nipple and continuing to let her hands wander along warm, soft skin. She trails her hand past the soft tuft of hair to tease along slick lips, relishing in the uncontrollable shiver of Lena's thighs. There is a deep satisfaction that curls up inside of her with the way Lena keens for her, the way she shudders around her fingers.

They all move together, caressing and tossing out breathless giggles, and Amélie once again finds herself between the two women. She mouths at the sweetness of Emily's delectably soft folds as she gracefully rides Amélie's face. Lena's fingers are thrusting deep in her, curling and nudging her g-spot with frustrating accuracy. Every moan Lena pulls out of her only spurs her on further to suck at Emily's clit.

Amélie doesn't know how long it all takes until they tire out. Hours, at least. By then, they've fogged up the windows of her flat and sweat covers all of them. They step together into her open air shower, laughing  as they help each other wash.

Amélie feels almost as if she is watching this all happen, rather than actually experiencing it herself. She feels like she should be feeling...ashamed, and guilty, or at the very least numb. But she doesn't feel numb—she feels content, which is the closest thing she's been to happy in a long time.

She watches the two other women wash their hair in her shower, the same shower she used to share with Gérard.  She stands in the same spot where he used to rub at her shoulders underneath the spray, combing the last of the conditioner through Emily's hair. She watches as Emily turns her head to look at her, droplets of water hanging off her long blonde lashes.

"Something the matter?" Emily asks.

It's an innocent question, but it triggers her to come back to reality, for her brain to enter consciousness again and for her to remember she inhabits a body. Slowly, she feels the numbness creep in, and with it the fleeting feeling of tranquility is gone, replaced by her usual, never-ending ache.

"No, not at all," Amélie replies, giving what she hopes is a smile in response. "Everything's fine."

She wonders when she can say that truthfully, or if it will always be a lie.


End file.
